What Makes a Man: Decisions
by SilkenNightmare
Summary: Young Rufus, but this one is told ofrom a different perspective. Minor talk of murder, but nothing gory.


Disclaimer: Do not own song. Do not own characters. Do not own brain.   
AN: Ok, I know I haven't posted in a very very long time. I am quite sorry for that. Um.. This is the 6th in the series and is being release with the 5th because I think the 5th is pretty bad (but please read it anyway). I don't know if/when I will write more of these, schools been pretty hectic. Thanks.   
  
  
  


What Makes a Man: Decisions   
  
  
  
  
_"And how the room is softly faded, and I'll only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand, you're a stranger unto me,"_-Paul Simon, Art Garfunkle, Dangling Conversation  
  
  
  
  


His father decided to send him away after the rumors started; and what rumors they were. Midgar no longer found young Rufus cute and sad. They found him odd. They shied away when he walked through the city, with Dark Nation on one side and a Turk on the other. When he spoke his voice was always calm and cold somehow, like everything he said was carefully rehearsed. He was always polite, but there was something in his voice that expressed arrogance, and annoyance. His skin didn't tan, and although he grew taller, he didn't seem to age properly. People either hated him, or loved him, there was no in between. Everyone respected him. Such were the rumors.  
  
He was an enigma, doing the unexpected, and no one could quite figure out why. He had had his moments of fame; times when President Shinra thought his son might be all right after all. But it never lasted.  
  
The old man paced around his office, feeling guilty for the first time in his life. His son frightened people, frightened him, he hated that he couldn't understand him, hated that his son's motives made no sense, hated the closeness his boy shared with the Turks, as if treasuring some secret only known to them.   
  
President Shinra shut his eyes, then with a heavy sigh opened them and left his room. He walked through the hall, down two flights of stairs, and to the other side of the building, coming to a stop before his son's bedroom door.  
  
"Sir," Tseng said softly, from where he leaned against the wall. It was his watch, it seemed it was always his watch. "May I help you with something, Sir?"   
  
"No." The old man nearly snarled, hatred flaring up again. He struggled to contain it, Tseng was one of his favorite employees, quiet, unobtrusive, respectful. It was hardly Tseng's fault his son was odd. No, no, President Shinra thought, clenching his teeth, it was the boy's mother's, damn the woman.  
  
The old man entered his son's bedroom, taking extra care to be quiet, and stood, looking at his son's face, illuminated gently by the lights filtering through the open door. He walked up to the bed, standing over the blond boy, who still looked so young.   
  
I still love you, he thought, and his features gentled, even if your mother ruined you, I still love you. He ached briefly for the days when Rufus had been small, sweet and normal. The boy's mother said he was a prodigy, and back then President Shinra had agreed, watching as the 2-year-old built a duplo castle. But, like everything, it hadn't lasted, Rufus's mother and he had fought, first over their son's future, then over other things. Rufus began to grow odd, preferring to be with his mother, saying things uncanny and upsetting. The boy's mother had balked when her son told her of his father's plans to destroy a small company. She had confronted the president, asking if it was true, he denied it, of course, and left the company alone.  
  
It was then, like now, that he decided something simply had to be done. He couldn't face the thought of hurting his son, even though it had been the boy fault his plans were ruined. So he killed the mother, quite kindly he felt. He had Palmer do it, bring her a poisoned drink. Very kindly, the man thought now, how would she like to see our son like this?  
  
The papers said her death was caused by a Valium overdose.   
  
He reached out and gently stroked his son's hair, marveling at its softness. I'll tell him tomorrow, he thought, and after running his hand through the golden strands one last time, turned and walked away. It was the first time he had touched the boy, skin to skin, in seven years.  
  
  



End file.
